Lucky me.
1
Goth Me Up-Bay-Bee
Give me one good reason why I should go tonight." It's Sunday evening, five p.m., and I'm desperately trying to get out of the big Club Fang outing my sister's got planned for us.
I'm not holding out much hope, though.
After all, it's a proven fact in life that what Rayne wants, Rayne gets.
Period.
End of story.
Rayne rolls over from a lounging position on her four-poster bed, props her head up with an elbow, and gives me her best pout.
"Quit your whining.
It'll be totally fun and you know it.
Besides, I went to see Dave Matthews with you and you can't possibly imagine how painful that was for me to endure.
My ears still haven't recovered." My identical dramaholic rubs her lobes with two fingers, as if they're still causing her pain.
Puh-leeze.
"Whatever." I shove her playfully, and she falls back onto the mattress.
"As if it's a chore to hear that dreamy voice." "Chore, no.
Cruel and unusual punishment worse than death? Now you're getting warmer." Rayne jumps up from the bed and makes a beeline for her closet.
"So you're going.
It's decided." She rummages through the hangers, face intent.
"Now we need to find you something to wear." Danger! Danger! "Oh no you don't!" I cry.
"I may be forced to go to this stupid club, but I'm so not undergoing some extreme Goth makeover.
There's nothing wrong with what I have on." I stand up and model my tank/jeans/flips combo, which has always served me well.
Rayne turns to look at me for a second—long enough to give me a once-over and roll her eyes—then turns back to her closet.
She pulls out a long black skirt and black sweater.
"I'm not wearing a sweater to a nightclub," I protest.
"I'll sweat to death!" "Fine.
Jeez.
It was just a thought." She crams the outfit back into the overflowing closet, exchanging it for a black (surprise, surprise) tank top.
Now while as a rule, I'm totally a tank top type of girl, I tend to stay away from ones made out of vinyl.
"No effing way." I shake my head.
"People will think I'm into S&M and start trying to whip me or handcuff me to the stage or something." Rayne emits her patented sigh of frustration at my protest, but thankfully returns the bondage outfit to the closet.
I, in turn, sit back down on the bed and wonder whether I should be concerned that my twin owns an outfit like that to begin with.
"How about this?" she asks.
She pulls out a very cute spaghetti tank with the words Fashion Victim written on the front.
"It seems rather appropriate." I throw a pillow at her.
"Only in the most ironic of ways, of course," she amends with a giggle.
"Or, there's always this one." She exchanges the tank with another—this one pink with white writing that says Bite Me! "Where'd you get that shirt?" I ask curiously.
"It doesn't seem like your type of thing.
It's not even black." She shrugs.
"Some vampire let me borrow it a while ago.
I keep forgetting to give it back." "Vampire?" I raise an eyebrow.
While I knew Rayne ran with a different crowd, I hadn't realized they fancied themselves creatures of the night.
"We're swapping clothes with the undead now?" I guess that would explain all the black.
Rayne snorts.
"I just borrowed a T-shirt, smart-ass.
But for the record, yes.
There's like this whole group of them in Nashua.
They look like Goth kids, but they're really members of an ancient vampire coven." "You've got to be kidding me," I groan.
"Why would anyone want to pretend to be a vampire anyway? Like why is that so cool? Do they go around drinking each other's blood or something?" Rayne gives me a noncommittal shrug, which tells me she actually thinks it is cool, but isn't about to admit it to me.
I consider teasing her, but then decide the "live and let live" theory of sisterhood is the best plan of action at this point and drop the subject.
After all, I have to hang out with her all night.
Having her mad at me is only going to make things that much more painful.
"Okay, I'll wear the Bite Me shirt," I say to appease her.
At least it's not black.
"It'll be my standard response to anyone who tries to hit on me." I giggle.
"Someone can come up and be like 'Hey babe, what's your sign?' and I'll just point to my shirt." Rayne laughs appreciatively and tosses me the tank top.
"Of course they might think you're pointing to your boobs in a 'have at 'em, big boy' kind of way." "Ew!" "Don't worry," my sister says, swapping her T-shirt for a long, black princess dress ornamented with a ton of lace.
Where does she find this stuff? "Most of the boys will be gay, I'm sure.
All the good ones are, especially in the Goth scene.
You don't get many hetero guys who dig wearing eyeliner." She snorts.
"So, little angelic twin of mine, I'm quite confident that your virtue will remain intact, no matter which T-shirt you wear." Here she goes again.
I knew we couldn't have a whole conversation without Rayne's infamous "Sunny the Innocent" digs.